


A Day in Paris

by Johnismyloveforever64



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Light BDSM, M/M, McLennon in Paris, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-08 08:43:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12250926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johnismyloveforever64/pseuds/Johnismyloveforever64
Summary: John and Paul have an eventful day in Paris. The couple feels freer here as they are free of judgement about their relationship. Is just a light-hearted adventure with these two love-birds on their little honeymoon.





	1. Waking Up in Paris

**Author's Note:**

> As most of you know, this week is the 56 year anniversary of when Paul and John took their glorious honeymoon to Paris. So, this fic is in honor of this event.

The smell of fresh bread wafted through the tiny lime green hotel room. A baker called out something in French. Paul’s eyes fluttered open, the sunlight blaring in his eyes. He felt John’s warm body next to him and he felt this calm wash over him as he realized he was in Paris. He peaked over at John, who was sleeping soundly beside him, half his face obscured by the flattened pillow. He was still in his clothes, having been too tired to get changed last night. 

On their first night in Paris, the boys discovered that the Parisians know how to party. They went to a small café, thinking they’d just have a few cups of coffee, a delicious French pastry, and have the chance to make moon eyes at each other. What they didn’t realize was how hardcore the French were about French rock and roll, and the pair danced till midnight; finally rolling back to the hotel around two, after frolicking through parks, high on gin.   
Paul smirked at the memory. 

“Paulie?” He heard John murmur. “You up?”

Paul nodded. John opened one eye and glared at him. 

“How are you up? The sun is barely up.”

“John, love, it’s 9:30.”

“You’re kidding?” John feigne+d excitement and then rolled over, pulling the floral bedspread over him. 

“C’mon, John,” Paul said softly, “don’t you want a French breakfast.”

“Later,” John mumbled grouchily.

“Yeah, but they could run out of croissants—or bread.”

“It’s France,” John emphasized, “They’ll never run out of bread.” He burrowed back under the sheets.

“Yeah, but by the time we get down there it might be all picked over and we’ll be left with the ends.”

“So? I can take one for the team and eat an end piece.”

“But John,” Paul said after a pause, “what about cheese? You know French people eat bread and cheese for breakfast. Do you really want to go down there in two hours to find stale end pieces and no cheese?”

“Cheese?” John popped his head out of the blankets like a rabbit. “What kind of cheese?”

“Gouda?” Paul guessed.

“Toss me my sweater.”

Paul rolled out of bed and grabbed John’s sweater out of his suitcase. Paul threw on a black turtle neck and a pair of dark jeans. He was about to go when John called out.

“What? No morning kiss.”

Paul spun around and planted a big wet kiss on John’s lips. He then gave him a look like, ‘you happy?’ before skipping out of the room. John, smirking, pulled his sweater over his t-shirt and followed Paul out. 

__

The boys’ hotel was beside a corner bakery which had two tables outside and one rickety table inside. The display case, though, showed the most delicious looking cakes in France. As such, the queue was always out the door, and John and Paul were stuck at the back of the line, staring down the only available table.

“I think I’ll grab that table before one of these beatniks gets it,” Paul suggested.

“And leave me here to deal with the French? Are you kidding?” John responded, raising an apprehensive eyebrow.

“What’s wrong with the French?” Paul responded. 

“Nothing—except I don’t speak the language, so when they talk all I hear is the teacher from Charlie Brown.” 

Paul shook his head. 

“What?” John was trying not to laugh, and so was Paul.

“I’ll wait and line and get the food. You find a table.”

“I’m not going to abandon you with the French.”

“I’ll be fine. I parle un petite francais, eh? Now sit.”

John plopped down a few feet away from Paul. He flashed him a silly face and Paul returned it, both making their eyes real wide and crinkling their noses. They both broke into hysterics. Some of the other ultra cool beatniks flashed them a concerned look, as if they had just escaped from a mental home and need a ride back. John ignored them, but Paul’s face fell. John, looking at the sweatered beatniks, their brushed down hair in their berets and tiny cigarettes, lit a cigarette, then leaned forward like he was having a really important conversation. Paul noticed and the smile began to return to his face. John, internally glowing, kept his composure, and looked like a serious French beatnik. To this, Paul laughed out loud, and the beatniks really thought he was mad. John broke then and the two were laughing like mad people.

But as the queue moved, Paul got further and further away from the table, and John was left alone. He watched the door, trying to see Paul’s coif among the berets. When he finally spotted him, he felt a surge of excitement. 

That excitement was topped when Paul returned with a tray of French pastries. They got cheese and bread like Paul promised (neither of which was stale) along with a couple of danishes. Paul handed John the change and John waved him away. John’s generosity on this trip shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Paul, as no one could really describe him as frugal, always sharing his sweets and ciggies. But paying for everything was really taking Paul off guard. 

“What’s going to happen, you know, when we’re rich and famous?” Paul said.

“You mean, in general?” John asked, sipping his hazelnut flavored coffee. 

“No, I mean when you have actual money are you just going to pay for everything.”

“Why, are you afraid of becoming a gigolo?” John asked casually, taking another sip of coffee. Paul’s eyes widened.

“I’m not going to live off of you, if that’s what you mean?”

“What? A man always provides for his lady.”

Paul kicked him in the shin and John glowered at him. but he broke out into a smile. He shook his head. Paul smirked while eating his Danish. 

“Well, in the future, you’ll be rich too, so once in a while you can pay for dinner.”

“Where?”

“Some fancy Italian place in London.”

“Or Paris?”

“You really like it here, don’t you?” John said.

“Don’t you? This place is beyond gorgeous.”

“Well, I’ve only seen it in the dark.”

“Then look around.”

John peered out at the city streets, admiring the vine-covered buildings that surrounded him. The early morning sun made everything glow and with the scent of pastries, it all seemed too fantastical to be real. 

“Alright, I love it here,” John said, with a mouthful of bread. 

“And I love you,” Paul said softly. John instinctively looked around, expecting someone passing by to hit him for saying that. But the beatniks standing a few feet away, listening intently to their conversation, and didn’t even bat an eye when Paul declared his love for him. And to that, John beamed.

“I love you, Paul McCartney!” He proclaimed dramatically, standing up. Paul looked at him like he was mad, then he saw John crack up. Paul swatted at him. “What? I always wanted to do some dramatic love declaration in front of a crowd.”

“Fine, go ahead, scream it from the rooftops—“

“That’s a great idea!”

“I didn’t mean literally—oh shit.”

Next thing he knew, he was standing on the rooftop of their hotel, holding hands, and John was looking like a kid about to enter Disneyland. He was gripping the ledge and looking out at the incredible view. Paul was by his side, looking at him with so much concern. 

“John, are you sure you want to do this?”

“We’re in Montmartre. No one cares. Look, there’s a gay couple right there—and there, and a lesbian couple walking by and—“

“I get the picture. So just scream your love for me and get it over with. I want to make it to the Louvre before lunch.”

John looked like he wanted to object, but feeling Paul’s eyeballs on him he just kept his mouth shut.

“Well?” Paul prompted. He looked over at Paul, took in his youthful face, those big Bambi eyes, his high cheek bones and soft plump lips. He felt a surge of adrenaline rush through him and spinning around he shouted out:

“I love Paul McCartney! I love him and I am proud! I love him and I’m proud!” he projected his voice out into the streets. Some people in dark sunglasses carrying bongo drums stopped and waved at him. John waved back.

“Hey, who’s Paul?”

John pulled him forward and Paul, going quite pink, awkwardly waved to the small crowd. 

“I love this guy!” John screamed, beaming at his Paul. Paul was really blushing now. “Come on,” John nudged him, “Say it back. They love us,” he said reassuringly. 

Paul cleared his throat and shouted out:

“I love John Lennon! I’ve loved him since I was fifteen!”

And the crowd cheered. Paul’s cheeks were deep scarlet, and John’s eyes lit up. 

“I do love you, you know,” Paul said softly, taking his hands. John squeezed his hands and gazed into his eyes. 

“I love fucking Paris.”

“I love you, John Lennon.”

“I love you, Paul McCartney.”

“Hey, speak up!” Someone from the crowd yelled.

“Hey, shut it!” John shouted back and then turned back to Paul. “Paulie, love?”

“Yes, Johnny dear?”

“There’s something else I always wanted to do.”

He leaned in and very gently kissed Paul. Just then, the crowd cheered. They each gave a little bow and then spun around. They noticed then the way the buildings rose behind 

them on the Montmartre hill. They squeezed each other’s hand and beamed. 

“Paul, bunny dear?”

“Yes my lovely?”

“Do you want to queue for three hours to look at a woman sort of smile?”

“Do I?” Paul replied excitedly, pulling him away.


	2. Beatniks and Brushed Down Hair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul run into an old friend while having lunch in Paris and embark on a two-part beatnik adventure.

They arrived at the Louvre an hour later. John was right: the queue was out the door. They made their way to the back, and John tried not to grumble the whole way there.

“I just don’t get why you don’t like Da Vinci?”

“It’s not that I don’t like him—“

“It’s because all your art teachers told you to appreciate him and your ‘fuck-authority’ part of your brain was like ‘nope.’”

“Paul, I’m capable of forming opinions that have nothing to do with the British Education System.”

“Not really. Last week, you told me that you could never drink milk in cartons because they used to give you them in the canteen.”

“That’s not true—it’s because it reminds me of the war.”

“You were an infant.”

“You were a fetus.” 

“You still are one.”

“Okay, nice burn,” John conceded, “but I honestly don’t hate Da Vinci. I just prefer more modern ar—“

“Oh, you want to see modern art!” A beret wearing beatnik said from behind them. 

“Here we go,” they said at the same time. 

“I’m a local artist—“

“Yeah, we’re staying in Montmartre. We’re surrounded by them.”

“Yes, but you haven’t seen my work.”

The guy reached into his pocket and pulled out a bookmark containing elaborate abstract art that almost looked like a rose that had been shot.

“I call it ‘Dunkirk.’”

“That’s actually—“

“Impressive,” Paul finished for him. 

“Did you study in Paris?” John inquired.

“I am a student now, actually. I go to school just up the road. But I like to visit the Louvre on my days off for inspiration.”

“You’re so lucky,” John replied. “I studied art in Liverpool and we had no such Louvre.”

The guy chuckled. Paul looked surprised. 

“I actually have A-levels in art, so—“

“You’re an artist?” The student said to John. “So, what do you like to paint?”

“I actually prefer cartoons.”

“He’s an exceptional cartoonist,” Paul cut in.

“Do you have a sample of your work?” The student replied. 

“I may have scribbled on a napkin, but I don’t have a bookmark. Where did you even get that?”

“From some local company. I figured it’s better than a business card.”

“Are they for sale?”

“2 Francs each.”

John handed him the money and took two bookmarks from the gentlemen’s hand. After he purchased them, the student waved goodbye and took off down the other way.

“Do you think he stands in line at the Louvre just to sell to suckers like us?” John said, admiring the fiery rose. No response. He looked over and Paul was clutching his bookmark tightly, his eyes focused on the museum, his jaw set tight. “What? I thought you liked it.”

“I do,” he answered curtly, refusing to meet his eye.

“Oh my god, you’re jealous.”

“Shut up, no I’m not.”

“Believe me, I know jealousy and you’re jealous. Of what, though, I don’t know. He’s just some guy.”

“But he was so nice to you.”

“He was trying to make a sale, Paul. That’s all. And hey, I bought the thing and got rid of the guy, so what’s the big deal?”

“Well, did you think he was cute?

“I can’t believe I’m having this conversation. Did I not just declare my love in front of all of Montmartre?”

“It’s just we’re surrounded by artists, and you are one and I’m not—I mean not really.”

“Paul, I flunked out of art school. What does that tell you? I never even learned to draw eyes.”

“I like your eyes.”

“On paper or these?” John said, giving him a butterfly kiss. Paul giggled and swatted him away. 

He looked up at John through his long eyelashes. He felt like he could get lost in those amber pools. He leaned and kissed him on the cheek. John turned pink. “Forgiven I guess?”

“Just promise that you will tell everyone about my A-levels in art.”

John laughed. 

“Okay, definitely. And I will tell these snobs that you dragged me to the Louvre and not the other way around. And when we get in there you can play tour guide and tell me all   
about Da Vinci’s technique.”

“And you can mock me for it.”

“Till I’m blue in the face.”

He put his arm around Paul and pulled him close to him giving him a little kiss on the head. 

__

After the Louvre, they went to lunch. They found a nice little café not far from the Louvre. John ordered them monte cristos (because it was the only food he recognized) and the two of them ate them happily. They sat on the same side of the table, John’s hand resting comfortably on Paul’s. They couldn’t help but smile the whole meal.  
That was until a familiar face suddenly appeared in the crowd.

“Yawn!” Their friend Jurgen called out approaching them.

“Jurgen,” John replied, snatching his hand away from Paul’s. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to visit Montmartre; see the Paris art scene. What about you?”

“We came to see Montmartre too,” John replied stiffly. He nudged Paul. 

“Yes,” he added, before shoving a French fry in his mouth. 

“Why are you sitting like that? People are going to think you’re on your honeymoon.”

They both laughed uncomfortably, sliding away from each other.

“So,” Jurgen plopped down across from them, “do you mind if I join you for lunch?”

“Go ahead,” John answered. Paul nudged him but John just ignored him. “How’s Astrid?”

“Oh she’s great. She wanted to come but she’s so blindingly in love that she can barely leave the house—if you know what I mean?”

“We don’t,” John answered flatly. 

“Still single boys?”

“I went on a date last month?”

“With who?” John blushed as he realized just how pissed he sounded. John cleared his throat, “Was she nice?”

“I won’t go out with her again,” Paul replied, looking in his eyes. John didn’t realize until that second how tense his shoulders were. He took a deep breath, forcing his shoulders to   
relax. 

“There’s no rush, I guess,” he replied.

The boys nodded and flashed a knowing look before turning back to their sandwiches

After lunch, Jurgen invited them to go to this trendy club back in Montmartre. 

“So we can listen to French rock and roll?” John asked wryly. “I’ll pass. It’s a tad lame, right Paul?”

“S’alright, I guess. Though, we did find a club last night that played some good rock.”

“I’m not talking about rock and roll,” Jurgen interjected. “I’m talking about Eliot.”

“Is he new? Because I can’t take another wannabe Elvis type—“

“He’s a poet. He’s done lots of stuff you’ve heard of.”

“Like?” John asked, clipped.

“Have you heard of The Hollow Men?”

“No,” John snorted, “can you dance to it?”

Paul nudged John and gave him a knowing look. 

“Wha?” John said to him. 

“Maybe we should go,” Paul said in a low voice, facing John. “Check out the beatniks.”

“Like at the zoo?” John said. 

“Shut up—you know you’re just as pretentious as they are.”

“Shhh!” He whipped around so he was facing Paul. “No one can hear you say that. and besides, these blokes write about is their souls bleeding out their rib cage or some shit. It’s   
all a bit phony, anyway.”

“Okay, Holden Caulfield.”

John sighed heavily. 

“Fine, we’ll go to this George Eliot thing.”

Jurgen looked at him quizzically and Paul just said quickly, “he’s kidding.”

“No I’m not.”

“Shush!

The club turned out to have a ‘blue’ theme where every inch of the place was painted a dark indigo. The chairs and tables were painted to match (John could see through cracks in the paint that they were originally brown) and even the napkins were that same shade of blue. John felt a bit like he had taken a nose dive into a paint can. 

“So,” John said, passing a franc to a waitress in a blue wig, “where’s this Eliot person?”

“Oh, T.S. Eliot isn’t coming.”

“Uh, what?” John replied.

“It’s a reading of Eliot’s poetry. You know like when you guys do the Little Richard.”

John opened his mouth to correct him but decided against it.

“So, who is it—“

“Please welcome to the stage the Tom Tom.”

“Tom Tom?”

All around him people were snapping and John and Paul looked around in confusion.

“Uh, Jurgen, is this supposed to happen?” Paul asked. 

But Jurgen, like in an episode of the Twilight Zone, just went along with it, snapping his fingers in sync. John and Paul looked on in horror. 

And just then, a man in a black leather jacket, a cigarette behind his ear, and brushed down hair sauntered onto the stage. 

“Hello and welcome to Bleu. Tonight, T. S. Eliot will be with us—in spirit.”

This was followed by more monotonous snaps. John and Paul exchanged a worried look.

“So tonight,” Tom Tom continued, “I want to begin with one of his A-sides.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath:

“April is the cruelest month, breeding,” he took a deep breath, “lilacs out of the dead land, mixing,” he paused, “memory and desire, stirring,” he paused again, “dull roots with   
spring rain.” This was followed by a chorus of snaps. Jurgen snapped along with them. John looked over at Paul, expecting him to be cracking up, but he was listening intently, his eyes focused on the nearly silhouetted figure on stage. He turned faced Tom Tom, and tried for a second to see with Paul saw. He felt his stomach start to rumble and he was a bit parched. He wondered how long one could keep talking, as the poem went on forever. And as he zoned in and out, he found himself lost, unsure if he was still on this poem or the next. but then, after what may have been twenty minutes or an hour—John was unsure—the poet paused for a long time and looked directly at John and he said:

“Elizabeth and Leichster/beating oars/the stern was formed…the brisk swell/rippled both shores…Weiala leia/wallala leialala!”

John’s whole face lit up. He eagerly tapped Paul on the shoulder and whispered, “was that about sex in a canoe?”

Paul looked appalled but Jurgen just shot him a thumbs up. John leaned back on the chair, taken aback, beaming. Paul looked a bit concerned but turned his attention back to the poet.

After Tom Tom finished his poem, Jurgen tapped John on the shoulder and said.

“If you want to see your Eiffel Tower, we can sneak out now.”

But John shook his head and faced the stage, ready for more.

The show wrapped up around three, at which time John and Paul exited the Bleu, talking animatedly about the works of T.S. Eliot.

“I mean all that weird gibberish at the end, you got to admit I did it first,” John was saying as they got back out on the street. 

“Uh, that poem is like forty years old, John,” Paul replied, as they turned the corner up a trendy street. 

“I still did it independently from T.S. Eliot—so it still counts.”

“So, you enjoyed your visit to the zoo?” Jurgen asked wryly, walking up behind John and Paul. 

“Okay, I admit that was harsh,” John replied. “But honestly, these people are kind of cool.”

“Yeah, I mean they have those tiny cigarettes that make them look all French and sophisticated.”

“But did you notice their hair?” John continued a little eagerly, and watching, as if on cue, a beatnik with brushed down hair walked by.

“Oh, they all have them here,” Jurgen continued.

“I’ve noticed it’s quite popular,” Paul agreed. 

“Do you know where we can get one?” John replied. Paul looked at him in surprise.

“You want to look French?”

“Not French—just, you know, like this scene down here. So, can you do it?” He asked Jurgen somewhat apprehensively.

“Sure, I cut Klaus’s hair all the time. in fact, I did a similar style for Stu not too long ago.”

“So you can do it for us?” John asked.

“Who’s this ‘us’ you’re talking about?” 

John flashed Paul a knowing smile.

“Oh no, you’re not dragging me into this. I love my coif.”

“Paul, you’ve had that hairstyle since you were fifteen. Aren’t you sick of it?”

“Are you sick of rock and roll?” He shot back.

“No, but they have rock and roll down here—“

“Which you said is lame.”

“Not all of it. And besides, haven’t you always said that we’re more artistic than those morons who write bubblegum songs?”

“Yeah,” Paul sighed. 

“So, why not cut our hair like them? Aren’t we like them?”

“John, this morning I saw you butter a beatnik’s head.”

“That was different. I heard him say something about your eyebrows.”

“You did?”

John nodded, going a bit pink. But that gave Paul an idea. 

Paul, grinning, said, “Alright, I’ll try this beatnik do but you have to tweeze your eyebrows.”

John tried to laugh.

“Are you kidding? What am I getting ready for the junior prom?”

“I don’t know, maybe that’s the new look. The hint at the new direction. Tweezed eyebrows.”

“You’re a joke, you know that.”

“Coif or eyebrows? You pick.”

John sighed heavily.

“They’ll grow back won’t they?”

Paul and Jurgen grinned and the three of them took off down the street to Jurgen’s hotel.


	3. Banana Milkshakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul get a new look. After Jurgen plays a new song, John and Paul embark a romantic aside.

Jurgen was staying at a little place near the top of Montmartre. They had magnificent view of the city from up there, and while Jurgen searched for scissors John and Paul stood at the window, looking out at the city.

“It’s breathtaking isn’t it,” Paul said to him. There was a light breeze coming from the open window and the wispy white curtains rose up. John noted that he looked quite ethereal standing there like that. Subconsciously, he moved his hand closer to Paul’s so that he was touching his pinkie. 

“I didn’t know a city could be like this,” John said, glancing down at two men kissing on the street below. Paul’s hand hovered over John’s. The muscles in his hand tensed as he yearned to simply take his partner’s hand. John looked at him apologetically and shoved his hand in his pocket. They turned back and faced the kissing couple below, their breathing slightly sped up.

“It’s disgusting, isn’t it?” Jurgen said from behind them.

They looked at him quizzically.

“Uh, where? This place is pristine,” John responded, chaffed.

Jurgen nodded towards the couple in the street. John’s stomach dropped. Paul’s face got hot. 

“Uh,” Paul tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. They had never heard Jurgen speak like that before. 

“Fucking queers,” John muttered with a sneer. “Anyway,” he added quickly turning away from the window. “Let’s chop this fucking coif off, eh.”

Jurgen pulled up a wooden chair and placed it in the center of the room under a light fixture. He turned on every light source in the room and pulled the curtains all the way back.   
when John raised an apprehensive eyebrow at this, Jurgen simply explained that he needed to see every hair on John’s head. he then wrapped a hotel towel around John’s neck, pulled out a pair of scissors from his art kit, and announced he was ready to go.

“And you’re sure you know what you’re doing?” John asked warily, looking up at Jurgen with slight anxiety. 

“It’s really not too difficult. And besides, it’ll grow back.”

John shared a worried look with Paul but didn’t protest any further. Jurgen pushed John’s head down and ceremoniously took the first snip. A lock of John’s hair cascaded down and John stared at it in horror.

“Jurgen, are you sure—“

“Just stay still,” Jurgen said urgently, pushing his head back down.

Paul looked on concernedly, biting his nails. 

Jurgen took a comb and started brushing his hair down. John was blinded by his own hair and felt disconcerted about this. Then he saw the scissors come by his eyes and he flinched.

“Paul, don’t go anywhere,” he called out suddenly.

“Stay still,” Jurgen said again. John cringed as he heard the scissors snap shut. 

For a while, Jurgen snipped away at John’s hair. He took a lot off the front, leaving him with just a short bit of hair that hung down about a quarter of the way down his forehead. He didn’t take nearly as much off the back, leaving it at a somewhat normal length. By the time he was done, the floor was covered in chunks of John’s hair. John looked at it in horror.

“Uh, how long does it take to grow back?” John called out as Jurgen flitted around, looking for a mirror. 

Finally, he found one and handed it off to John. He held it up cautiously, looking into his reflection with one eye. It didn’t look half bad. He opened his eyes and sort of smiled.

“Hey, this is alright,” he said earnestly. “I look like I should be lamenting about capitalism in trochaic hexameter.” He looked up at Paul expectantly.

“It looks good!” He said flashing him a thumbs up. “Now you’re a proper art-type.”

“And you,” John said, pushing him into the chair, “are next.”

“But John, this might suit you but I have a different shaped head. your more of a horse. I’m a total plate.”

“First of all, burn. Second of all, you’re the one that wanted to be all arty and cool. I don’t see the issue. it’s just hair?”

“But it’s on my head.”

John rolled his eyes.

“You said you’d do it,” John pointed out. “And besides, don’t I look good?”

Paul looked John up and down. John had looked pretty much the same since the day he met him and well, this new haircut really seemed to suit him. in fact, the room seemed to   
be heating up right at that moment.

Crossing his legs, he sat up in the chair and nodded at Jurgen. Jurgen cheerily agreed and rushed out to rinse off his scissors. John flashed him a goofy grin while he was gone, and Paul tried to smile back. Jurgen wrapped the towel around his neck. Though, John’s hair was still stuck in the fibers, which would have grossed anyone else out, but John’s scent wafted into Paul’s nostrils, and it only made him feel more peaceful. So he put his head down and let Jurgen go to work.

About fifteen minutes later, Jurgen took the towel off and handed him the mirror. Paul took a deep breath and took a look. He was shocked at how different it was. It framed his face in a completely different way. He almost looked more youthful and Bambi-like with this new cut than he did with his teenage coif. 

“So, you like?” Jurgen asked.

“I like,” Paul agreed, handing the mirror back to him. He then looked at John mischievously. 

“What?” John responded innocently.

“I held up my end of the deal,” he said knowingly.

John scoffed.

“That was a joke. What man would tweeze their eyebrows?”

“It’s just to give them some shape.”

“Shape? Why the fuck do they do need a shape? They’re eyebrows! They’re just there! Who cares what they look like?” He then looked at Paul quizzically. “You don’t like my eyebrows do you?”

Jurgen looked between them in bemusement.

“There’s room for improvement.”

“Room for improvement?” John was properly chaffed. But he still plopped right down in the chair and looked at Paul expectantly. “Well?”

Paul gleefully grabbed a pair of tweezers from the bathroom. He leaned down in front of his partner, grinning devilishly from ear to ear. John glowered at him. 

“You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am.”

John looked at him apprehensively.

“Will it hurt?”

Paul laughed but didn’t answer. He just plucked a hair right off John’s forehead. 

“Ow!” John exclaimed. Jurgen looked a bit taken aback at John’s outburst, but also quite amused. 

For a short while, Paul plucked away at his eyebrows, causing John to wince, cringe, and occasionally shout:

“Damn it Paul!”

When he was finally done John was staring at Paul so furiously, Jurgen thought he might throw him out the window. But then, Paul presented him with the hand mirror, and John got a glimpse of himself. His eyes widened in shock. 

“They don’t look that different. How is that possible? You must’ve pulled out a thousand of those fuckers.”

“Well, I didn’t really thin them out. I just took out some of the messy ones and gave it a nice shape.”

John unsuccessfully hid how impressed he was. he shoved the mirror back to Paul and grunted some obscenities, though it was obvious he was hiding a smile. Paul could not be more satisfied.

 

Once they were all settled with their new haircuts, Jurgen passed out these hand-rolled French cigarettes. John and Paul eagerly took them, and the three of them sat on the floor and smoked. After a few minutes, Jurgen pulled out a brand-new Elvis record.

“I bought it at a shop down the road,” he explained. “It was nearly sold-out so it must be good.”

John was reluctant to believe that as he hasn’t liked anything Elvis has done since he left the army. But out of politeness, and out of fear of Jurgen’s scissors, he didn’t protest.   
With some static, the song filled the small hotel room, seeming to fit the mood perfectly. The song was slow and lilting and reminded John of Love Me Tender, a classic in his opinion. He tried not to glance at Paul, as that had been ‘their song’ back in high school. Paul must’ve felt the same way, because he was sucking his cigarette dry as if he hadn’t smoked in days. 

“…Can’t help falling in love with you…” Elvis sang. John’s body heated up, and he had to stop his neck from turning right to Paul. He couldn’t look at Paul, he reminded himself as   
he pulled at his chopped locks, his Bambi eyes are just too irresistible. But the song seemed to be calling to him: 

“…Take my hand/take my whole life too…”

John finally looked up at that part. His hand was twitching. Paul, similarly, felt tingly, as he long for John’s soft touch. And just at that part, they both glanced at their partner, their eyes heavy with longing, every muscle tense, and heat and electricity was steaming off of them. 

“Turn it off,” John whispered; his voice rough. 

“You don’t like it?” He responded, his voice small.

“No, it’s just that Paul and I have dinner reservations in a little while and we need to get back to our hotel. We just sort of lost track of time. right Paul?”

Paul hastily nodded and stood up.

“Thanks for the haircut, by the way,” Paul called as they hurried out the door. Jurgen was left alone, feel very bewildered. 

__

John and Paul rushed back to their hotel, feeling like they were about to catch fire. 

“You know we really do have reservations,” John said, as he fell onto the bed. Paul stood next to the bed, trying to get his sweater off. 

“It won’t take long,” Paul said, kissing John on the lips, hard. John closed his eyes and felt Paul’s soft lips on his. His muscles relaxed substantially. Paul finally got his sweater off,   
and John tore off his pants and kicked them aside. He leaned down to unbuttoned Paul’s trousers but there was a knock at the door. Without thinking, he opened the door, covering Paul’s half-naked body under the covers.

It was a French maid, dressed in the proper costume, wielding a service cart. She looked shocked to see him.

“Mr. Lennon,” she gasped, “I-I-I came here to clean.”

“I can see that,” John said, trying to use the door as a shield. “I’m actually getting dressed. My friend and I have dinner reservations in a little while so.”

Her eyes owl-like she nodded and hastily pushed the cart away. John let the door close and bounced onto the bed.

“Well?” he said to Paul. 

“We only have twenty minutes and we still have to take showers.”

John grinned devilishly. 

…

The water was tepid as it slowly drenched their backs. Paul shuddered and John pulled him close to him to keep warm.

“Maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Paul said, his erect cock poking John in the pelvis. John giggled at the thought. 

“But Paul,” John said in a sultry voice, “I just can’t help,” he began to sing like Elvis, “falling in love with you.”

Paul eyes bore into John’s and he broke into a gleeful smile. He kissed John on the lips and felt his tongue pushed into his mouth. Paul tasted cigarettes and pastry. John gripped   
the back of Paul’s neck, feeling the chopped hairs in between his fingers just to get a better taste. They crashed into the wall, gripping at each other’s hair. Their wet bodies were pressed into each other. 

“I fucking love you,” John gasped. Paul then kissed John’s neck, his teeth just grazing the skin. This made goose bumps rise all over his body. John pulled Paul even closer so his cock was pressed against his. He then slithered down onto his knees. He stuck out his tongue and ran it down Paul’s cock. Paul closed his eyes and moaned. John felt his throbbing cock in his mouth and he moaned. He slid Paul’s cock in between his lips and gently moved back and forth, Paul gripped John’s hair tightly, moaning. Finally, he came   
and John stood back up. 

Paul gripped John’s cock and furiously rubbed it till it was pulsating. John screamed out Paul’s name as he came. They looked at each other, drenched and out of breath and smiled.

“You’re the fucking best I’ve ever had,” John said as he turned the shower off.

Paul, giggling, bit his ass as they climbed out of the shower.


	4. Happy Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Paul make love in Paris and make an everlasting declaration of love.

Inside a dimly lit restaurant, John and Paul sat across from each other at a candlelit table, holding hands over the bread basket. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes. 

“I just can’t get over this new look,” Paul said, noting John’s trimmed hair. John blushed slightly and flipped his hair, his fringe gliding up his forehead and framing his face perfectly. Paul’s face got hot. 

“You look pretty good yourself,” John replied. Paul went bright pink.

“What do you think the others will think?” Paul asked.

John shrugged, looking quite nonchalant. 

“I don’t really care what they think. Besides, it’s my fucking band.”

Paul gave him a warning look.

“Okay, our fucking band. But the point still stands.”

Paul nodded.

“Besides,” John added, taking a big piece of bread, “they can always succumb to the beatnik lifestyle.”

“Does this mean we have to replace all our furniture with plastic chairs?”

“No more comfort for beatniks,” John added, cocking his eyebrow, “Comfort is what capitalism wants for you.”

“Yeah, and they want you to eat washed fruit!”

John chuckled at Paul’s sudden enthusiasm. 

“You know,” John added, taking a draw from his cigarette, “you’ll have to start wearing a beret.”

Paul’s sat there, agape, his eyes widening in mock horror. Then, he broke out in a knowing smirk. John looked bemused. 

“You know, you could start wearing a fez!” 

John guffawed. 

“A fucking fez? Who wears a fez?”

“That guy over there, and that couple over there, oh and our waiter.”

John looked a bit surprised but very amused. He laughed a little and stroked Paul’s hand affectionately. 

 

“I’m glad I get to do this with you,” John said suddenly, becoming uncharacteristically sentimental. Paul was taken aback. 

“Mock beatniks? John, if you got paid for that you’d be a millionaire—“

“I know, I just mean,” he paused, squeezing Paul’s hand harder. He glanced around the crowded restaurant, mostly filled with young people like them. none of them even noticed   
the two homosexuals holding hands in the middle of the restaurant. In fact, there was another gay couple sitting in a booth nearby and they were openly kissing, their halibut getting cold in front of them. Paul noticed and nodded in agreement. “Well, I am delighted to be here too.”

“I don’t really wanna leave here.”

“We just got here John. we’ve been here barely 24 hours.”

“I know, but eventually we’ll have to go back to Liverpool and pretend that we’re just mates. And I won’t be able to do this—“

He kissed Paul on the lips, expecting to hear a gasp, almost wishing for it. But instead, he heard someone whistle in the background. He pulled away, suddenly looking quite glum. Paul stroked his hand reassuringly. 

“Johnny, let’s just enjoy our time here. it’s a waste if we spend every second thinking about what we can’t do in Liverpool. Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“Because we can do it here. And let’s just take every opportunity we can to just—“

He kissed John deeply and slowly. When he pulled away, John was left stunned. 

“So let’s just enjoy this,” Paul said, taking both of his hands. 

Just then, their steaks arrived and they had to pull away. 

…

After dinner, they were so hyped up on wine and French bread that they ran up and down the streets like a couple of street mice. It was pouring rain and they were soaking wet. 

“What should we do now?” John asked, hopping onto a fountain’s ledge. He looked like he was about to hop in so Paul stood on guard. 

“Go back to the hotel?”

“Why? Because we’re sixty.”

“John, it’s pouring.”

“So? It’s just a little rain,” He took his hands and pulled him up onto the fountain’s ledge. “So we get a little cold. I don’t want to miss a moment with you.”

“When did you turn into Humphrey Bogart?”

John ignored him danced like he was in Singing in the Rain. Paul rolled his eyes but couldn’t resist how adorable and surprisingly earnest John was being. He took John’s hands and they did an elaborate tap number, flinging their feet in all directions. The fountain splashed in their faces and that only made them giggle. But then John stopped suddenly his foot hovering over the water.

“We could go to that park in the city center. You know the fancy one.”

“John, we’re in Paris. Every park is fancy as hell.”

“No, but you know the one: the one across from the big eye sore.”

“You wanna see the Eiffel Tower don’t you?”

“No, I just want to frolic around a lovely park. Don’t you? We could buy discount hot dogs and do the Lady in the Tramp thing!”

Paul looked at him like he was nuts, but with a glowing smile. John took his hands and slowly pulled him away from the fountain.

“Come on, it’ll be fun.”

So they took a cab to the Eiffel Tower. Most of the tourist had taken cover but there were still some stragglers, John and Paul among them. They ran up the muddy lawn, mud splattering on their pants. They held hands along the way. From a distance, Cole Porter played on someone’s record player. John mouthed the words to Paul and he giggled.   
They stood under the tower, their hands still intertwined. They looked up at the tower and for one brief moment they let themselves get sentimental. But after exactly one minute   
John said to Paul, “I am so fucking wet.”

Paul giggled and pulled him away. He backed up a few feet and snapped a photo of John standing under the Eiffel Tower. John looked surprised.

“What? I wanted a nice picture of the Eiffel Tower.” John ran up to him and kissed him then. 

Paul pulled away feeling this awe-like feeling take over him.

“What?” John looked concerned.

“It’s just kissing under the Eiffel Tower. It’s so romantic and, I don’t know, I’m happy I get to have that with you.”

John gave him another little kiss. Just then, they heard a Frenchmen say:

“Who is the happy couple?”

“John and Paul,” John answered. “And this the love of my life.”

Paul was glowing.

“Well, I have a lovely little ditty for you.”

He pulled out a guitar and began to play La Vie En Rose. Normally, John would roll his eyes at such a schmaltzy song but that night, he took Paul’s hand and swayed along to the music. They twirled around like Ginger and Fred, giggling a bit, but their romantic gaze never faltered. When the song drew to a close, John pulled Paul into his arms and kissed him like he had never kissed him before. It was the most passionate kiss in either of their lives. 

And when it was over, John immediately called a taxi, a mischievous look in his eye. Paul, giggling, ran after him, a look of pure joy in his.

…

The door swung open to their hotel suite and they came barreling through. They stood in the doorway, kissing passionately, their tongues swirling in each other’s mouths. They banged up against the door, John feeling the door knob in his back. He didn’t care. He’d let Paul push his body against every surface in his room.

“Do it again,” he urged.

Paul pushed his body into the door and John felt the door knob hit him right above the ass. He let a sultry moan. He put a leg up against the wall opening his pelvis to Paul. Paul pushed his body against his so his erect cock was pressing against John’s, only their tight jeans in between. Paul cupped John’s cock through his pants and could feel it pulsating. 

“Take it off,” Paul whispered in John’s ear. 

“You.”

Paul bent down and unzipped John’s trousers with his teeth. John kicked them off along with his pants. Paul stroked John’s cock as if it were a stone statue he was admiring. The electricity from Paul’s fingers sent a shudder down Paul’s spine. Paul pulled John closer to him and wrapped his lips around the tip. He bit ever so slightly on the edge which seemed to light up every nerve in his cock, making John moan loudly.

“Harder,” he urged.

Paul bit down harder and then licked his dick, his saliva like a solvent. He furiously sucked on his dick until John came.   
John sat up and pulled Paul’s trousers down. He licked the length of Paul’s body and then bit his hip. Paul screamed out his name and gripped John’s hair. John, smirking slightly, bit Paul’s ass cheekily. Paul looked at him as if he were a naughty child. John fell back on the bed, satisfied.

Paul wacked him in the face with a pillow (and these were not soft pillows). John looked appalled, as if realizing that he didn’t know he was into that. 

“Do it again,” John said in a low voice.

Paul hit him on the ass with the pillow. 

“Well Lennon, you’ve been misbehaving in my class,” he picked up a book from John’s suitcase and struck him in the ass with it. John screamed out in delight. 

“Again,” he urged. 

Paul hit him harder leaving a red mark this time.

“Now hit me.”

“What’s the word?”

“It’s pie—it’s always pie.”

“Why did we pick pie—“

“You’re ruining the moment.”

Paul pinned John down and tied him up to the headboard face up. John looked up at Paul fervently. Paul raised his hand in the air, looking a bit eager himself. He slapped John across the face, leaving a red mark. John was a bit appalled, though it seemed to light up every nerve ending in his body. 

“Hit me again,” he said breathlessly.

Paul struck him again, feeling a bit gleeful himself. He then fell back against the pillow, but left John tied up.

“You know,” Paul said coyly, “I’m not quite done with you yet.”

He slithered down to John’s cock which was hard as stone and sticking straight up. Paul sucked on the tip so hard John nearly came right then and there. He then crawled back up to John’s neck where he bit him hard nearly drawing blood. John tried to kiss him but before could Paul pulled away.

He then loosened the ties just enough so he could flip John over and then tightened them again. John, faced down against the pillow, grinned. Paul straddled him. He lied on top of John’s back, wrapping his arms around his neck. He then inserted his erect cock into John’s ass hole. He moved slowly at first making John moan deeply and quietly. But then all the sudden he started moving much faster. John gasped. They both panted as the friction increased. Finally, John came into the sheets. Paul a few seconds later came as well. Paul collapsed against the pillow and then quickly untied John. John rolled over and faced him. he was covered in sweat but still looked eager. 

“We didn’t do you,” he said in a sultry voice. “Unless you’re too tired?”

Paul frantically shook his head. He sat up and John crawled up to him. He let his tongue massage Paul’s balls. Paul wrung his hands around the headboard, moaning. John moved to his cock which was now erect and he furiously sucked it. Paul screamed out:

“John fucking Lennon, ah!”

When he came, John kissed him on the lips. They were both exhausted so they collapsed onto the pillows, sweaty and panting. John pulled Paul into his arms and rested his head on Paul’s shoulder. 

For a while, they just laid there, not saying a word. But shortly thereafter, the phone rang and John answered it. It was room service asking if they had ordered a tomato sandwich.  
While John was busy arguing with the bellhop, Paul went and stood by the window, looking out at the city of Paris beneath them. he could just make out the Eiffel Tower in the background. He felt a peaceful feeling wash over him. 

He then felt a pair of strong arms wrap around his waist.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” John said softly.

“Beats Liverpool doesn’t it?” 

John didn’t answer, he just kissed his hair. 

“I have to agree with you,” Paul said then.

“What?”

“About not wanting to leave. I don’t think I ever can now.”

“Oh Paul,” he swung Paul around so he was facing him, “we’ll always have Paris.”

He gently kissed Paul’s lips, slowly closing his eyes. Paul held onto John tightly, never wanting to leave his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed John and Paul's time in Paris. I just want to wish John a happy 77th birthday.


End file.
